


My Other Voice

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23312287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: You think you're a romantic...
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames/Thomas Jopson, Captain Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson, Commander James Fitzjames/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	1. … And the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story and the quote in the summary come from the song, My Other Voice, by Sparks. The chapter titles come from, variously, Duran Duran's The Chauffeur, PJ Harvey's Rub Til It Bleeds, and the album by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds of the same name.  
> This story takes place in the interim between the events of "A Mercy" and "Horrible From Supper".  
> I am not involved in the production of The Terror. No one pays me to do this. This story, and the work it's based on are fiction. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

Before he registers anything else about it, Thomas feels a current of pleasure, a ticking thrill through the center of himself. The new addition is the captain’s hand on the back of his head, placed there with a kind of exquisite hesitation, disturbing Thomas’ hair no more than a cautious exhalation would. With the sensation comes to Thomas the impression of the captain trembling as he raises then sets down his hand. It sharpens Thomas’ nerves to anticipation, inclines Thomas more toward what he’s doing, the two currents mixing: the gentle pressure of the captain’s hand, and the displacing weight of the captain in Thomas’ mouth. It’s like being bracketed in place, front and back; the thought strikes him someplace inside, a pang of warmth that’s almost painful. To be completely in the captain’s embrace; touched by both that which he gives freely to others and that which is most particular to him. Giving the captain pleasure, and being found satisfactory, wordlessly urged to go further. Thomas breathes in deeply through his nose, takes the captain deeper, tries to relax against the wearying tightness in his jaw.  
But then, the captain says: “It’s to no avail, I’m afraid.” He says it softly, the sound flooding Thomas’ desire with fondness, a melting and poignant feeling, but it does not blot desire out; only increases it. But for the captain’s declaration, Thomas would continue. If one enjoys doing something, one makes oneself good at it, seeking to extend one’s own pleasure outward. Required effort is certainly no stopper against enjoyment. Depending upon the night, Thomas may be more or less successful, but often, given enough time, he will accomplish what he means to through persistence. Sometimes, persistence is a greater aide than passion. Both, Thomas likes to think, dwell in and flow naturally from him. It is reluctantly that Thomas stops. The captain extends his hand and Thomas takes it, wincing slightly as he rises, feeling the effect of the floorboards on his knees.  
“Is there something else, something you’d rather I did instead?” Thomas asks, his hands at the front of the captain’s trousers, waiting in readiness. He presses his hand between the captain’s legs, a gesture of possessiveness that shocks Thomas even as he opens himself to the pleasure it brings. That wetness is from Thomas’ mouth. Thomas thinks the words clearly for the thrill doing so produces, feels himself color. Futile though it may be, Thomas touches, strokes, glides his fingers through his cooling spittle.  
“Or is there someone else you’re thinking of?” In saying it, a swell of jealousy rises in Thomas, working as a bellows on hot coals, exhaling onto desire something bitter that only serves to make desire more ardent. Strange though it is, Thomas almost hopes to hear the captain say Captain Fitzjames’ name. If it were said, Thomas would know what to do. He would ask to be allowed to see to the captain in some way that obscured him from the captain, from behind, or under the bedclothes. Out of the captain’s sight, the captain would tell him what the captain wished he were doing with Fitzjames. Hidden from view, Thomas would be enclosed, as in a compartment, for only the captain’s use, an instrument of the captain’s private thoughts. In a sense, Thomas would be absent, locked out, but Thomas wishes it, still. With an ache that runs the length of him, inside and out, he wishes it. He can almost feel himself being put away, in the dark, only his hand or his mouth exposed. He would cease to be in one way, but become wholly present in another. He would be all that the captain felt.  
“Nothing has faltered,” the captain says gently, again touching the warm places inside of Thomas, so that Thomas has to look down, “excepting that acted on by time. Old age,” the captain adds, smiling in self-mockery. “Certainly not you, nor my affections.”  
“You don’t wish you were with him,” Thomas says, feeling himself color even more as he makes himself meet the captain’s gaze, less at his show of boldness than at what lies behind it.  
“When I’m with you, I think only of you,” the captain says. He tidies himself, straightens his clothing. “I only wish I could show you.”  
“As though that mattered to me,” Thomas says. It’s too much, going too far, but he can’t bring himself to feel ashamed of himself. If something is true, cannot be changed, there’s little point in being ashamed of it.  
The captain lays his hand on Thomas’ cheek, and Thomas allows himself to place his hands on the captain’s hips. “Come and lie down with me,” the captain says.  
The captain walks him backward to the bed, and they sit down, Thomas setting himself carefully on the captain’s knee, in order to fit into the gap between the bed rails, the captain’s hands on Thomas’ face, his throat. Kissing him, the captain unbuttons his collar, and Thomas allows himself to fall forward a little, supported by the captain’s body. He wants to say something, but cannot find the correct words. He’s already said too much. In continuing to lay himself bare, he would be taking a liberty. The prospect of liberality produces no joy. He would like to be constrained, stoppered, locked up; held tightly, hemmed in.  
With some effort, he maneuvers himself around the bed rails, lies supine on the captain’s bed. He pulls the captain on top of him, feels by degrees the captain’s weight upon him as the captain settles himself, the press of it, not coming all at once, like the tide of sleep that gradually erodes waking. As he’s kissed, Thomas holds on tightly, until something must unwind on the inside, allowing him to relax, to touch rather than grasp; his hands traversing the span of the captain’s shoulders, downward to his broad back, the shallow valleys of his waist, down to the soft places on the captain’s hips where the flesh blooms into gentle curves. He holds the captain’s hips against his, still hoping, however in vain, that there may be a pleasurable conclusion for both of them. His own end is drawing near, as there’s only so far he can be taken before, touched or untouched, he will succumb.  
Thomas is touched, the captain not just exposing but partially undressing him, the captain’s mouth going everywhere his hands have been, finally replicating Thomas’ earlier attempt. Would that he, himself, had been as successful, Thomas thinks fleetingly, before he’s swept away completely. Just in time, he brings his hand up to his mouth, and closes his teeth around a finger, stopping up all sound except for that of his agitated breaths. The flicker of pain pulls him taut, increasing his pleasure to the point that he feels as though he is being turned inside out.  
Slowly, full awareness of himself returns to Thomas, bringing propriety with it, making him flush anew, at the state he’s in, his trousers and drawers down around his hips, his shirt pulled up over his belly, flushing stem to stern. The indentations left by his teeth form a jagged line, like illegible script, down his finger.  
The captain is still lying between his legs.  
Thomas brings his hand up to rest on the captain’s head, gently running his fingers through the captain’s hair.  
Letting his eyes slip shut, Thomas smiles.  
No one waits for him anywhere. No place but here is he needed. Already in the seat of duty, Thomas is permitted to tarry. Eventually, he covers himself. The captain wipes his mouth on a handkerchief, drinks a sip of water, then comes back to bed, wraps Thomas in his arms. The minutes slip past, borne away as breaths. The evening closes like an eye.  
“Would you like to sleep here?” the captain asks.  
“If you’ll permit me, sir,” Thomas says, letting fatigue wash through his voice.  
“I’m ordering you,” the captain says. He’s behind Thomas, so Thomas cannot see, but somehow feels the captain smile.  
“Have you ever known me to disobey an order, sir?”  
“Not you, Thomas,” the captain says, now also sounding drowsy, fond in drowsiness.  
“Do you wish to undress?”  
“Considering the hour, I think I should.”  
Slowly, they rise. First, there is the captain’s jacket. Then, his waistcoat. His tie comes off. His braces are lowered. He sits at the edge of his bed, and Thomas removes his boots. Next, his trousers. Next his drawers. To Thomas’ pleasure, the captain immediately settles himself under the bedclothes, safely shielded from the cold, moving aside to leave space enough for Thomas. When he has undressed, Thomas extinguishes the lamp, and gets into bed next to the captain. Warmth touches every part of him, his back to the captain’s front, the bedclothes tucked around him. Thus enveloped, he sleeps.  
In the dead of night, he wakes, apprehends that he is not alone in wakefulness. The captain’s hand moves up his thigh, pushing up his shirt, over his hip, and Thomas accommodates him. For a while, he lets the captain touch him from behind, then, as in a fitful sleep, turns in the captain’s arms to face him, kisses him, exposes him, presses himself against the captain’s body. He isn’t prevented from doing so, so he rubs himself against the places on the captain that he’s bared, his hand on the captain’s hip. Possibilities unspool behind his eyes. With a little effort, the captain could turn him onto his front, use him thus. He could direct Thomas to move down the length of the bed to bring his head to the captain’s lap, to try his luck again. He could avail himself of Thomas’ hands. They might please each other like this, naked body against naked body.  
“What do you want?” Thomas hears himself gasp. Having said it, he has to say more. “Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything,” he adds, moved by the pleasurably aching swell between his legs. “Anything,” he repeats, pushing against the captain’s body, increasingly slick with his own fluids.  
He waits for an answer.


	2. Speak, cos I'm listening

Suddenly, his mouth is dry.  
He was heard the first time, but he makes himself say it again.  
He barely recognizes the voice that issues from his mouth. It is his, for it couldn’t belong to anyone else, but a rougher, lower version of the sound he knows himself to produce. He could be ill, shimmering with fever, his throat scoured, his lungs congested and clotted. The thought produces a climbing sense of dread, so he thinks only of the sound. The sound, he finds, pleases him. He means it to shock.  
“Fuck me.”  
That it does not, that Francis only regards James with a gently mirthful expression, as from amusement, caressing his cheek, makes James feel a kind of fitfulness inside; makes him fully assume the urgency of his request, become the coarseness of both his words and his voice. Perhaps he did shock, but only himself. That must be it, he thinks, feeling himself flush.  
No, not amusement. That would be cruel of Francis, and it feels cruel to James to think it of him. That is not Francis. Not amused. Indulgent. His hand on James’ cheek is gentle, moving slowly down James’ neck, to his shoulder, down the length of his body to his waist, and James leans into it, the softness of Francis’ touch, the warmth of it, both tactile and intangible. He brings his own hands up from Francis’ hips to his shoulders, moves them down, over the rise of Francis’ breast.  
“I don’t think that I can,” Francis says, untroubled, simply stating a fact. “Not the way you’d like me to.”  
“I don’t care,” James says. “Do it in any way you’re able. Please.” He enjoys, he finds, the act of laying himself bare by degrees, laying the exposed parts before Francis, waiting for Francis’ reaction. Maybe he still means to shock. He leans down, kisses Francis, opening his mouth hesitantly, suddenly cautious of asking too much of Francis. Yet, Francis opens his mouth against James’, kissing him deeply, embracing James tightly, his body pressed against James’. How can Francis not feel this? It’s beyond his control, but, yet, with a kind of helplessness, James wonders. Perhaps this is what awaits James, down the corridor of illness. There may come a time when illness takes feeling from him, leaves him dead in this part of himself. He makes himself think only of what is happening. His heart is pounding. He breathes heavily. If before, he wanted, now, he needs, and allowing himself to need it, feels defiantly far from insensibility of any kind. He unbuttons his trousers, then his drawers. Even the incidental touch of his own hand in undressing himself stirs in him greater urgency. He feels Francis’ hand, and the muscles of his abdomen contract, as though he’d been struck. He moans as though he’d been struck. His head falls back, and Francis kisses his throat, hands on James’ hips, moving to his backside.  
He turns around, braces himself against the wall, a matter of simply putting out his arms in the narrow compartment, eases his hips back. He feels Francis’ mouth on the back of his neck, moving lower, his hands on James’ hips, uncovering him. He hears himself say Francis’ name, feels Francis’ hands on him in response, caressing, exploring. The mechanism of James’ release becomes increasingly immaterial, as the fact of it opens into inevitability.  
“I’m going to try with one finger,” Francis says softly.  
“Yes,” James murmurs. He feels himself exposed further, Francis moving James slightly, spreading his legs, positioning his hips, then, the tip of Francis’ finger entering him, the sensation almost painful, overwhelmingly one of intrusion. Yet, it’s a welcome intrusion. James feels himself tremble as Francis presses on, his finger slowly entering completely James’ body. There comes a rich ache, a prelude to release, bittersweet, gut to fundament, down into the very root of him. Again, he trembles. It should be embarrassing, being taken this far with so little, but, James finds, he lacks the capacity to give a damn.  
No, he enjoys it. There is no part of it he doesn’t enjoy, including his lack of control over himself. Illness takes so much of one’s control over oneself. In the relinquishing of it, James giddily considers, one may wrest it back. Having ventured this much already, he wraps his hand around his cock, as though attempting to physically hold together his constituent parts.  
“Like this?” Francis asks.  
“A little more...” James begins, not knowing how he means to phrase it; instead, reaching back to place his unoccupied hand on Francis’ to guide him. “Like that,” he says, resting his brow against the wall. It’s an awkward angle, but he keeps his hand on Francis’, moves himself to suit his needs. It could never be as much as he wants, but it is enough. There’s only the sound of his breathing as he takes Francis, takes himself through to the end. When it comes, he’s extinguished, put out suddenly like a light, with a ragged gasp.   
Slowly, he takes his hand off of Francis’, and Francis withdraws his, James’ body aching from the contortions he’s put it through as he turns to face Francis. What, James wonders, does Francis see when he looks at James, now? Carefully holding his right hand away from himself, Francis kisses James, then turns toward the wash basin. Breathing heavily, James covers himself, glances over his shoulder.  
The wall will have to be cleaned.


	3. The Boatman's Call

They’re tucked away, something like dishes just washed and dried, to sleep in their cupboard until toiling hands again reach for them, to set them out.  
“If that will be all, sir,” Thomas says, neatly excusing himself, the day’s labors ended. Thinking himself finished, he’ll tuck himself away, as well. A place for everything, and everything in its place.  
“I’d like it if you stayed, Thomas.”  
Thomas seems to hesitate, but then, clearing his throat, replies in the same tone, again suggestive of something tidily sliding into place, “Of course, sir; though, I cannot speak to Captain Fitzjames’ wishes. I wouldn’t stay if he objected.”  
“You should call me ‘James’,” James says gently, smiling a little. You’d mistake it for a jest if you didn’t know him.  
“I couldn’t do that, sir,” Thomas says, smiling a smile not unlike James’. There is some mockery in this, though perhaps only Francis can distinguish it. It draws him closer to Thomas, as all of Thomas’ well-concealed corners and edges do; sharp as they are, they’re something to hold onto.  
Smiling, Francis draws closer to Thomas in fact as well as fancy. He caresses Thomas’ face, feels Thomas incline toward him, his head tilted back slightly, a simple, probably unconscious movement that nevertheless tugs at Francis’ heartstrings. He kisses Thomas, softly at first, aware of what he’s doing, too conscious of it, pricked by caution against presuming or imposing, even after all of this time. The same pressure must exert itself on Thomas, from the opposite side; the duty of the servant, as opposed to the duty of the master. It’s always with them, even when they’re alone, the unnamed third party. What the named third party present thinks of what he sees, Francis cannot imagine. He couldn’t imagine, couldn’t know, until it was happening. There was the danger. There, also, was the worth in the undertaking. Then, from behind, Francis feels James’ hands on his hips, moving in slow circles before rising to his waist. When they meet Thomas’ hands on his back, Francis feels both James and Thomas start, shiver back momentarily, as though galvanized. After a final caress to Thomas’ cheek, he turns around, his arms coming up to rest on James’ shoulders, and leans up as James leans down to kiss him. With James, there is a different kind of care, unshakable awareness of the illness slowly unfolding in James. It takes James like a kind of recovery in reverse; the bloom of health being drawn away, leaving James with the half-luminous look of one between the swell of fever and the fever breaking. Spots of deep pink, pale mauve, have begun to slowly break the creaminess of James’ skin, as bodies of land revealed by melting ice. His skin grows paler. There are sometimes small spots of blood on his clothing; Francis find them when undressing James. Yet, James doesn’t complain of fever or pain. He carries on as he always has. He does not, he pointedly tells Francis, need gentle handling. Perhaps, Francis says, he wishes to handle James gently, even if James doesn’t need it; not for James’ sake, but for his own pleasure. Then, James colors slightly, and looks away.  
His eyes closed, Francis cannot see James color, now, but he can feel the flush rising on James’ cheeks, his throat; delicious heat that spreads beneath Francis’ hands as Francis unties James’ tie, slips his hands up James’ jumper. As he touches James, he feels Thomas’ hands on his waist, then at the buttons of his waistcoat. He lets himself be turned, lets Thomas remove his waistcoat, James’ hands moving under it as it’s drawn away, then down to Francis’ hips, around to his front. Thomas lays the waistcoat on the bed, then kisses Francis. Now, having progressed beyond the initial halting softness, he opens his mouth against Thomas’, pulls Thomas flush against him, his hands low on Thomas’ waist. Behind him, James moves closer, James’ front pressed against his back, James’ hand between his legs. It does not escape his notice that to do this, James must also contact Thomas; nor can it have escaped Thomas’ notice.  
When he takes his mouth from Thomas’, Thomas is breathing heavily.  
“If the two of you are amenable, I’d like to ask you to do something for me,” Francis says.  
James bears a look of puzzlement that Francis knows belies greater understanding than James would show. Thomas simply asks, “What would you like us to do?”  
“I would like you to please each other.”  
“And what will you do?” James asks.  
“If you’ll allow it, I would like to watch you.”  
“Francis-” James begins.  
“I understand that it’s a lot to ask, of both of you.”  
For a moment, all are silent, and Francis is certain that he’s miscalculated; given offense to Thomas’ fidelity, James’ pride. Yet, it had to be. A man gets tired of his own failings; not even for his own sake, but for the sake of those who bear the results of those failings so gracefully. There are only so many allowances, there is only so much understanding that Francis can bear. If he can’t have precisely what he wants, he’d rather have nothing. This, at least, would form a decisive moment. Better to risk losing all than to subsist on rationed happiness. He’s always known this about himself. Very often, he’s hated it.  
He prepares himself to speak again, to say, he knows not what, but then, Thomas speaks:  
“Again, sir, I can’t speak for Captain Fitzjames, but I am willing.”  
It was never taken for granted. He breathes out, as though from effort. Being given what he wants allows him to be generous. “You don’t have to, Thomas.”  
“I know that, sir.” Thomas touches his face, and Francis lays his hand on Thomas’.  
“Are you sure, Francis?”  
“Yes, James. I’m sure.”  
“Why?”  
“Surely, you can guess that answer to that question.”  
James shakes his head. “I’ve never made an issue of it. I don’t even truly care.” James frowns. After a moment, he asks, “Would this make you happy?”  
“I’d like it if it made all of us happy.”  
James sighs. “All right.” He laughs, sounding somewhat giddy. “It’s certainly not the worst thing I’ve ever been asked to do.” He looks at Thomas, now frowning anew. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it in that way.”  
“No offense taken, sir.”  
“Good,” James says, his expression warm. He turns back to Francis, kisses him, then steps slightly to the side. Francis embraces Thomas, kisses him, holding Thomas against himself. Now, Francis steps aside. Slowly, James approaches Thomas, places his hand on Thomas’ cheek, kisses him gently, almost as a gesture of consolation. The sounds they make together are soft, like the sounds one would make in sleep. They touch each other with care. Is this how it is, when Francis is with them? Does he caress Thomas’ face so gently? Are his hands on James’ waist so tentative? He cannot, now, recall hearing James exhale so roughly, as though having held his breath to avoid disturbing something frangible. Nor can he recall Thomas’ sigh. Was he ever there, at all? Is he here, now? With an unaccustomed sense of distance, he finds that he doesn’t register what is expected. He’s not jealous. Isn’t that strange?  
They sit at the edge of the bed. Francis’ bed. The bed rails require close sitting. Thomas is mostly in James’ lap, half astride one long thigh. This, Francis can recall, feels as a ghostly touch the pressure of Thomas’ weight on him, against him. Other things fade in, the more he witnesses. Seeing Thomas’ hands on James’ shoulders, he feels Thomas’ hands on his own shoulders, moving down his back. He feels James’ mouth on his neck. The possibility of termination slipping gradually from him, Francis had felt it wasted on him.   
That was how it felt. To want, but have all of that wanting go unfulfilled, so that he wondered why he should want anything.  
Nothing is wasted, now. Looking into Thomas’ eyes, James undoes Thomas’ trousers, slips his hand inside. Thomas inhales sharply. Again, as James’ hand moves deeper into his clothing, the fact of the matter concealed, but James’ movements making it plain. Thomas’ head falls back. Sighing, he moves to kiss James, his hips meeting James’ hand.  
Pulling back, James regards Thomas. His cheeks are pink, as though abraded by the wind, his mouth is red. “I can go to my knees,” James says hoarsely.  
Then, like actors moved by a directed cue, both turn slightly, and look at Francis. The sensation, sudden, almost chilling, is like that of unexpectedly being caught in the nude. Francis looks down. He’d half convinced himself that he had ceased to be. He clears his throat. “You should both do as you please,” he says.  
James huffs out a breath. “Well, I can’t speak for Jopson, but it would please me greatly if you’d involve yourself, somehow. That is why I’m here. I mean no offense, Thomas.”  
“None taken, sir.”  
James continues, “Though, I do think I speak for both of us when I say that I want you. Even if this is what you want from me, I want you to be part of it. I want you close to me.”  
“How shall we manage it?” Francis asks. “The bed...”  
“Damn the bed. Just come here, please. In a room this small, it must require more effort to hold yourself at a distance.”  
Then, it’s a bit like the opening dance at a ball, as they stand, arrange themselves in the confines of the space between bed and table. The most comfortable and logical configuration finds Thomas between them, James’ front to his back, Thomas facing Francis. This way, Francis is able to touch them both, Thomas in particular, his pleasure having been suspended. He slips his hand into Thomas’ drawers. After a moment, it is joined by James’.  
“Is this all right?” James asks, though whom he’s asking, Francis isn’t sure.  
“Yes,” Thomas says, and curiously, Francis feels no need to add his voice in agreement. It feels right to allow Thomas to speak for them both; like a service he’s performing for Thomas as Thomas performs one for him.  
Their hands touch as they see to Thomas, exposing him further to make to easier. James’ other hand is on Thomas’ hip, holding Thomas against him.  
His eyes closed, Francis hears a sigh, though he knows not from which of the two it comes. He hears a gasp. A shallow moan. A whispered endearment. Francis hears his name being said.  
Not once.  
Twice.


End file.
